


Both Sides of the Gun

by anr



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-25
Updated: 2009-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gustav Freytag's dramatic structure: it's all part of the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both Sides of the Gun

**Author's Note:**

> _Truth Or Consequences_ (7x01) to _Code Of Conduct_ (7x05)
> 
> Gibbs' rules in mouseover.

  


* * *

_ACT I_

* * *

  


There's a mandatory psych session following their return from the desert; a scripted game of _tellmehowyoufelt_ charades, Man Hands' pen scratching tirelessly across her notepad and his tongue still running about twenty miles above the posted limits. 

"You know," he says, "I _have_ done this before."

"This?"

He waves his hand indiscriminately. " _Previously, on the DiNozzo show_... recapping the highlights and lowlights, like that will give out the spoilers as to what's going to happen now that I've played twenty questions with a terrorist."

She writes consistently, still at it even after he's finished talking, and he considers leaning forward to read what -- for all he knows, she's making out her shopping list over there -- but he's never been that into cliff notes, so. "What do you think will happen?"

 _Please._ "A couple of nightmares, a what-if thought or two. I'll get drunk one night, overwork the next, and then..."

"And then?"

He shrugs. "Life will go on."

"You seem confident."

"That I'm not about to go all PTSD over a three day vay-cay in the Sahara? Sure."

"What makes you think you're not a candidate for PTSD?"

He laughs. "Okay, three things. One? _The Deer Hunter_ , 1979; _Aliens_ , 1986; _Fearless_ , 1993; _In the Valley of Elah_ , 2007 -- I know my stereotypes. Two, candidate? Last time I checked, psychological issues weren't something you applied for with a resume and references."

The pen moves quickly, flowing from margin to margin. "And the third?"

"Anyone ever tell you you say 'you think' a lot?"

She almost, almost smiles -- he'd bet his badge on it. "It's habit."

"So's checking the bonus features for a gag reel after the credits roll -- doesn't mean you'll find a deeper insight by laughing at another's mistakes."

For the first time since he sat down, the pen pauses, Bracco looking up. "You think what happened was humorous?" She doesn't sound surprised -- curious, at best -- but he's pretty sure she'd do well in a poker game against Abby, so.

He smiles thinly. "Wasn't it?"

  


* * *

  


After, he heads to the first bar he can find. Figures he may as well get this part over and done with before the next part starts -- and there will be a next part, he knows there will, she's not _back_ back yet -- and this place is as good as any for a beginning, the music just right, the alcohol numbing, the crowd young and pretty and vibrant, and he thinks about --

Not drinking enough, apparently.

Rapping shave-and-a-haircut on the bar, he flags down the bartender.

  


* * *

  


His only nightmares are old and familiar:

Walking into that diner, gunsmoke still heavy in the air.

The look on Paula's face, right before the goddamn wall closed.

Kate, on the gurney next to him, congested and coughing and barely conscious while he breathed far too easily.

His father, once.

  


* * *

  


He goes on.

  


* * *

_ACT II_

* * *

  


He stares. Without reservation, without shame, without any thought of stopping -- she was dead.

_He thought she was dead._

(He should have thought better. He should have remembered rule three. He should have --)

DiNozzo rule one: _seeing is believing_.

  


* * *

  


He appreciates that she's trying here, that she's following whatever twelve step programme it is Doc Bracco's put her on, dotting her t's and crossing her i's.

He appreciates the full circle of life, the universe and everything that is her ambushing him in the men's bathroom. (The first time was a surprise; the rest, history.)

He appreciates that four months ago she wanted him dead, four weeks ago she wanted herself dead, and that for the last four years she has refused to trust him.

Yeah, the case is over, a new day starting and her plant centered just so on her desktop -- the more he thinks about it, the more he's appreciating the _hell_ out of her right now.

(He wonders which step he was.)

Rule eleven; he walks away.

  


* * *

_ACT III_

* * *

  


_OPNAV INSTRUCTION 5370.2C, 3b. 'Fraternization' is the term traditionally used to identify personal relationships which contravene the customary bounds of acceptable senior-subordinate relationships. Although it has most commonly been applied to officer-enlisted relationships, fraternization also includes improper relationships and social interaction between officer members as well as between enlisted members, regardless of the service affiliation of the other officer or enlisted member, including members of foreign military services._

They're not Navy.

(Still, probably not a good idea. Probably.)

  


* * *

  


He almost trips over Ziva on his way back up to the office, a quick turn on his heel his only saving grace as he watches her take his place in the elevator.

"Heading out?" Her nod is curt, even for her. He chucks a thumb over his shoulder. "If you wanna wait a minute, I'll --" The doors close without any interference from her. "-- or not." Frowning, he turns again and heads to his desk.

"Problem, DiNozzo?"

Leaning back in his chair, he pulls Hanley's card out of his pocket and balls it up, scoring a three point shot into McGee's waste paper basket. "Ziva seem okay to you when she left, Boss?"

"Seemed fine, considering."

"Considering?"

Opening his drawer, Gibbs files away the papers sitting on his desk and gets to his feet. "Finish up your paperwork before you leave."

He salutes lazily as Gibbs walks past him. "On it, Boss."

  


* * *

  


He does not run out of staples in his Mighty Mouse stapler, does not have a full box of refills in his drawer, and so does not go looking through Ziva's drawer, and McGee's drawer, and finally Gibbs' drawer looking for more but instead finding a completed but unrecommended NCIS application form.

"Looking for something, DiNozzo?"

Without turning around, he holds up a paperclip. "Making the switch from staples. Figured it was time I started thinking about all those poor sheets of paper, brutally stabbed with twin holes of --" The headslap is expected. "-- thank you, Boss."

"Move."

"Moving." Straightening, he heads back to his desk.

  


* * *

  


He gets it -- Gibbs' hesitation? reluctance? whatever, _he gets it_.

She's too good an actor when she wants to be. Too good at swallowing her own cover and breathing out illusion like it's real. (He still remembers the feel of her nails on his shoulder-blades, her hair tangled in his fist -- _the FBI was right_.)

He knows she wants to move past this (so does he); knows she wants it so bad she thinks she's already there (she isn't); knows _her_ (four years and counting).

He gets that he's hesitating, too.

  


* * *

_ACT IV_

* * *

  


He finally dreams about _the mission_ the night she graduates to Probie-status, the remains of three celebratory beers in his system and his arm still warm from where she'd leant against him at the bar.

Ziva in front of him, bound and broken and staring, her eyes locked with his as Saleem slit her throat, a spray of warm blood on his lips, in his mouth, Saleem speaking his words, voice sand-gargled and echoing and impressive, _couldn't live without you, I guess_...

"Never again," he tells his reflection in the morning, the weight of his badge heavy on his hip as he shaves.

Around the copper aftertaste on the back of his tongue, he adds, "you know better." _And_ _you're not a masochist._

In the mirror, his reflection grins.

  


* * *

  


Her first case as an NCIS special agent and he can't stop watching her.

He can't stop watching her _a lot_.

(He'd thought he was past this.)

Gibbs slaps him around the head as he walks by his desk. "Eyes, DiNozzo."

He jumps to his feet with a segue. "None, Boss. The camera in the convenience store was a prop -- busted since '07 -- and there were no ATM or traffic cam's in the vicinity."

Ziva stands and moves around her desk to join him in front of the plasma, standing close enough for him to smell her soap or shampoo or whatever it is that makes her smell like her. "We do, however, have this." With the remote, she clicks up a blurry shot of their petty officer's running shoes. "A tourist took this photo by accident when Simmons pushed past them in the street." She clicks again. "And this." The running shoes disappear into the backseat of a parked car, a partial licence plate caught in the corner of the frame. "The car is registered to Simmons' grandmother."

Gibbs nods. "Find it."

  


* * *

  


"Twenty bucks says it's grandma."

She rolls her eyes. "Petty Officer Simmons' grandmother is eighty-two and walks with a metal frame, Tony."

He cracks open his water bottle. "Once arrested a girl with a pet monkey who did the cha cha with artificial hips --" Off her look, he shrugs. "-- I'm just sayin'."

"It is far more likely that Simmons stole his grandmother's vehicle and committed the offence himself."

"Backseat driving away from the scene?"

"His accomplice could have been anyone. His girlfriend, perhaps?"

He scoffs. "Not nearly as interesting." Passing her the bottle, he grabs the binoculars off the dash and scans the street. "Car."

He hands her the binoculars and takes back his water as she makes a note of the approaching vehicle's make, model and licence plate before it turns into the driveway two doors down, and it's the wrong time and wrong place (hollywood stakeout rules notwithstanding) but for a moment, as he watches her concentrate, he can't think about anything but kissing her.

She lowers the binoculars and meets his gaze steadily, the moment lingering.

She frowns. "Why would a monkey choose prosthetic limbs for a dance partner?"

 _I've missed you_ , he thinks. Out loud, he groans. "You're missing the point, Zi-va."

"And you are assuming you made one." Without looking away, she nods towards the windscreen. "Car."

He glances out the window and nods. "Ford Taurus, silver grey." He unsnaps the cover on his sidearm. "Let's go."

  


* * *

  


He slips once. "Agent DiNozzo, Officer David," he says, as they flash their IDs, holding open the Taurus' door.

"Agent David," she corrects smoothly. "And we would like to ask you some questions."

"Starting with why you're out visiting so late, Ms Riding Hood."

Simmons' girlfriend breaks quickly, giving him and grandma up before they've even really started (it's kinda disappointing).

Two hours later, he makes Ziva cuff grandma (the look on both their faces almost makes up for it).

  


* * *

  


Back at the Yard, he replies all to three of Ziva's emails, bold-facing the words 'I TOLD YOU SO' each time. When he types up his case report, he substitutes every reference to her with 'the Probie'.

He's being a bit of a dick, he knows, but it's expected and fun and a much gentler reminder than a self-delivered headslap (she doesn't concentrate well when she's pissed at him, and he's less likely to stare when he's pretending to ignore her reactions). 

He still wants to kiss her, though. (Masochist.)

  


* * *

_ACT V_

* * *

  


He knew _what_ he was going to say before he said it (DiNozzo rule thirteen: _never pass on a good cliché_ ) but not _how_ he was going to say it (lightly, like it was a joke; sincerely, like it wasn't).

He wonders if she knew what she was going to say before she said what she said and decides, yes, she did, because she is Ziva and she never does anything uncalculated.

Because he also knows it will frustrate her beautifully, he pretends not to notice the colour of his teeth for the rest of the day, and that works so well he almost considers raiding her desk for the food dye and dragging her prank into a second day. Almost.

He stops by the drugstore on his way home, and picks up a tube of the strongest toothpaste he can find, but it still takes him four attempts to brush his teeth white because he can't stop smiling, can't stop remembering the expression on her face and the way she didn't pretend to misunderstand him (even though he'd given her that option, just in case).

 _She gets it_ , he thinks.

His reflection grins.

  


* * *

  


Another day, another case, another moment in front of the plasma, in the space between his desk and McGee's, where he stands too close (or she does), his fingers a hairsbreadth from catching the fabric of her shirt, from pressing against the small of her back.

"Probie," he says, and means it.

She leans back.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/372811.html>


End file.
